CHAPTER XXII
“I am very much obliged to you for coming,” Newman said. “I hope itwon’t get you into trouble.”
“I don’t think I shall be missed. My lady, in these days, is not fond ofhaving me about her.” This was said with a certain fluttered eagernesswhich increased Newman’s sense of having inspired the old woman withconfidence.
“From the first, you know,” he answered, “you took an interest in myprospects. You were on my side. That gratified me, I assure you. And nowthat you know what they have done to me, I am sure you are with me allthe more.”
“They have not done well--I must say it,” said Mrs. Bread. “But youmustn’t blame the poor countess; they pressed her hard.”
“I would give a million of dollars to know what they did to her!” criedNewman.
Mrs. Bread sat with a dull, oblique gaze fixed upon the lights of thechâteau. “They worked on her feelings; they knew that was the way.She is a delicate creature. They made her feel wicked. She is only toogood.”
“Ah, they made her feel wicked,” said Newman, slowly; and then herepeated it. “They made her feel wicked,--they made her feel wicked.” The words seemed to him for the moment a vivid description of infernalingenuity.
“It was because she was so good that she gave up--poor sweet lady!” added Mrs. Bread.
“But she was better to them than to me,” said Newman.
“She was afraid,” said Mrs. Bread, very confidently; “she has alwaysbeen afraid, or at least for a long time. That was the real trouble,sir. She was like a fair peach, I may say, with just one little speck.She had one little sad spot. You pushed her into the sunshine, sir, andit almost disappeared. Then they pulled her back into the shade and ina moment it began to spread. Before we knew it she was gone. She was adelicate creature.”
This singular attestation of Madame de Cintré’s delicacy, for all itssingularity, set Newman’s wound aching afresh. “I see,” he presentlysaid; “she knew something bad about her mother.”
“No, sir, she knew nothing,” said Mrs. Bread, holding her head verystiff and keeping her eyes fixed upon the glimmering windows of thechâteau.
“She guessed something, then, or suspected it.”
“She was afraid to know,” said Mrs. Bread.
“But _you_ know, at any rate,” said Newman.
She slowly turned her vague eyes upon Newman, squeezing her handstogether in her lap. “You are not quite faithful, sir. I thought it wasto tell me about Mr. Valentin you asked me to come here.”
“Oh, the more we talk of Mr. Valentin the better,” said Newman. “That’sexactly what I want. I was with him, as I told you, in his last hour.He was in a great deal of pain, but he was quite himself. You know whatthat means; he was bright and lively and clever.”
“Oh, he would always be clever, sir,” said Mrs. Bread. “And did he knowof your trouble?”
“Yes, he guessed it of himself.”
“And what did he say to it?”
“He said it was a disgrace to his name--but it was not the first.”
“Lord, Lord!” murmured Mrs. Bread.
“He said that his mother and his brother had once put their headstogether and invented something even worse.”
“You shouldn’t have listened to that, sir.”
“Perhaps not. But I _did_ listen, and I don’t forget it. Now I want toknow what it is they did.”
Mrs. Bread gave a soft moan. “And you have enticed me up into thisstrange place to tell you?”
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Newman. “I won’t say a word that shall bedisagreeable to you. Tell me as it suits you, and when it suits you.Only remember that it was Mr. Valentin’s last wish that you should.”
“Did he say that?”
“He said it with his last breath--‘Tell Mrs. Bread I told you to askher.’”
“Why didn’t he tell you himself?”
“It was too long a story for a dying man; he had no breath left in hisbody. He could only say that he wanted me to know--that, wronged as Iwas, it was my right to know.”
“But how will it help you, sir?” said Mrs. Bread.
“That’s for me to decide. Mr. Valentin believed it would, and that’s whyhe told me. Your name was almost the last word he spoke.”
Mrs. Bread was evidently awe-struck by this statement; she shook herclasped hands slowly up and down. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, “if I takea great liberty. Is it the solemn truth you are speaking? I _must_ askyou that; must I not, sir?”
“There’s no offense. It _is_ the solemn truth; I solemnly swear it. Mr.Valentin himself would certainly have told me more if he had been able.”
“Oh, sir, if he knew more!”
“Don’t you suppose he did?”
“There’s no saying what he knew about anything,” said Mrs. Bread, witha mild head-shake. “He was so mightily clever. He could make you believehe knew things that he didn’t, and that he didn’t know others that hehad better not have known.”
“I suspect he knew something about his brother that kept the marquiscivil to him,” Newman propounded; “he made the marquis feel him. What hewanted now was to put me in his place; he wanted to give me a chance tomake the marquis feel _me_.”
“Mercy on us!” cried the old waiting-woman, “how wicked we all are!”
“I don’t know,” said Newman; “some of us are wicked, certainly. I amvery angry, I am very sore, and I am very bitter, but I don’t know thatI am wicked. I have been cruelly injured. They have hurt me, and I wantto hurt them. I don’t deny that; on the contrary, I tell you plainlythat it is the use I want to make of your secret.”
Mrs. Bread seemed to hold her breath. “You want to publish them--youwant to shame them?”
“I want to bring them down,--down, down, down! I want to turn the tablesupon them--I want to mortify them as they mortified me. They took me upinto a high place and made me stand there for all the world to see me,and then they stole behind me and pushed me into this bottomless pit,where I lie howling and gnashing my teeth! I made a fool of myselfbefore all their friends; but I shall make something worse of them.”
This passionate sally, which Newman uttered with the greater fervor thatit was the first time he had had a chance to say all this aloud, kindledtwo small sparks in Mrs. Bread’s fixed eyes. “I suppose you have a rightto your anger, sir; but think of the dishonor you will draw down onMadame de Cintré.”
“Madame de Cintré is buried alive,” cried Newman. “What are honor ordishonor to her? The door of the tomb is at this moment closing behindher.”
“Yes, it’s most awful,” moaned Mrs. Bread.
“She has moved off, like her brother Valentin, to give me room to work.It’s as if it were done on purpose.”
“Surely,” said Mrs. Bread, apparently impressed by the ingenuity of thisreflection. She was silent for some moments; then she added, “And wouldyou bring my lady before the courts?”
“The courts care nothing for my lady,” Newman replied. “If she hascommitted a crime, she will be nothing for the courts but a wicked oldwoman.”
“And will they hang her, sir?”
“That depends upon what she has done.” And Newman eyed Mrs. Breadintently.
“It would break up the family most terribly, sir!”
“It’s time such a family should be broken up!” said Newman, with alaugh.
“And me at my age out of place, sir!” sighed Mrs. Bread.
“Oh, I will take care of you! You shall come and live with me. You shallbe my housekeeper, or anything you like. I will pension you for life.”
“Dear, dear, sir, you think of everything.” And she seemed to falla-brooding.
Newman watched her a while, and then he said suddenly. “Ah, Mrs. Bread,you are too fond of my lady!”
She looked at him as quickly. “I wouldn’t have you say that, sir. Idon’t think it any part of my duty to be fond of my lady. I have servedher faithfully this many a year; but if she were to die to-morrow
, Ibelieve, before Heaven I shouldn’t shed a tear for her.” Then, after apause, “I have no reason to love her!” Mrs. Bread added. “The most shehas done for me has been not to turn me out of the house.” Newman feltthat decidedly his companion was more and more confidential--that ifluxury is corrupting, Mrs. Bread’s conservative habits were alreadyrelaxed by the spiritual comfort of this preconcerted interview, ina remarkable locality, with a free-spoken millionaire. All his nativeshrewdness admonished him that his part was simply to let her take hertime--let the charm of the occasion work. So he said nothing; he onlylooked at her kindly. Mrs. Bread sat nursing her lean elbows. “My ladyonce did me a great wrong,” she went on at last. “She has a terribletongue when she is vexed. It was many a year ago, but I have neverforgotten it. I have never mentioned it to a human creature; I have keptmy grudge to myself. I dare say I have been wicked, but my grudge hasgrown old with me. It has grown good for nothing, too, I dare say;but it has lived along, as I have lived. It will die when I die,--notbefore!”
“And what _is_ your grudge?” Newman asked.
Mrs. Bread dropped her eyes and hesitated. “If I were a foreigner,sir, I should make less of telling you; it comes harder to a decentEnglishwoman. But I sometimes think I have picked up too many foreignways. What I was telling you belongs to a time when I was much youngerand very different looking to what I am now. I had a very high color,sir, if you can believe it, indeed I was a very smart lass. My lady wasyounger, too, and the late marquis was youngest of all--I mean in theway he went on, sir; he had a very high spirit; he was a magnificentman. He was fond of his pleasure, like most foreigners, and it must beowned that he sometimes went rather below him to take it. My lady wasoften jealous, and, if you’ll believe it, sir, she did me the honor tobe jealous of me. One day I had a red ribbon in my cap, and my lady flewout at me and ordered me to take it off. She accused me of putting it onto make the marquis look at me. I don’t know that I was impertinent, butI spoke up like an honest girl and didn’t count my words. A red ribbonindeed! As if it was my ribbons the marquis looked at! My lady knewafterwards that I was perfectly respectable, but she never said a wordto show that she believed it. But the marquis did!” Mrs. Bread presentlyadded, “I took off my red ribbon and put it away in a drawer, where Ihave kept it to this day. It’s faded now, it’s a very pale pink; butthere it lies. My grudge has faded, too; the red has all gone out of it;but it lies here yet.” And Mrs. Bread stroked her black satin bodice.
Newman listened with interest to this decent narrative, which seemedto have opened up the deeps of memory to his companion. Then, as sheremained silent, and seemed to be losing herself in retrospectivemeditation upon her perfect respectability, he ventured upon a shortcut to his goal. “So Madame de Bellegarde was jealous; I see. And M. deBellegarde admired pretty women, without distinction of class. I supposeone mustn’t be hard upon him, for they probably didn’t all behave soproperly as you. But years afterwards it could hardly have been jealousythat turned Madame de Bellegarde into a criminal.”
Mrs. Bread gave a weary sigh. “We are using dreadful words, sir, but Idon’t care now. I see you have your idea, and I have no will of my own.My will was the will of my children, as I called them; but I have lostmy children now. They are dead--I may say it of both of them; andwhat should I care for the living? What is anyone in the house to menow--what am I to them? My lady objects to me--she has objected to methese thirty years. I should have been glad to be something to youngMadame de Bellegarde, though I never was nurse to the present marquis.When he was a baby I was too young; they wouldn’t trust me with him. Buthis wife told her own maid, Mamselle Clarisse, the opinion she had ofme. Perhaps you would like to hear it, sir.”
“Oh, immensely,” said Newman.
“She said that if I would sit in her children’s schoolroom I should dovery well for a penwiper! When things have come to that I don’t think Ineed stand upon ceremony.”
“Decidedly not,” said Newman. “Go on, Mrs. Bread.”
Mrs. Bread, however, relapsed again into troubled dumbness, and allNewman could do was to fold his arms and wait. But at last she appearedto have set her memories in order. “It was when the late marquis was anold man and his eldest son had been two years married. It was when thetime came on for marrying Mademoiselle Claire; that’s the way they talkof it here, you know, sir. The marquis’s health was bad; he was verymuch broken down. My lady had picked out M. de Cintré, for no goodreason that I could see. But there are reasons, I very well know, thatare beyond me, and you must be high in the world to understand them. OldM. de Cintré was very high, and my lady thought him almost as goodas herself; that’s saying a good deal. Mr. Urbain took sides with hismother, as he always did. The trouble, I believe, was that my lady wouldgive very little money, and all the other gentlemen asked more. It wasonly M. de Cintré that was satisfied. The Lord willed it he should havethat one soft spot; it was the only one he had. He may have been verygrand in his birth, and he certainly was very grand in his bows andspeeches; but that was all the grandeur he had. I think he was like whatI have heard of comedians; not that I have ever seen one. But I know hepainted his face. He might paint it all he would; he could never make melike it! The marquis couldn’t abide him, and declared that sooner thantake such a husband as that Mademoiselle Claire should take none atall. He and my lady had a great scene; it came even to our ears in theservants’ hall. It was not their first quarrel, if the truth must betold. They were not a loving couple, but they didn’t often come towords, because, I think, neither of them thought the other’s doingsworth the trouble. My lady had long ago got over her jealousy, and shehad taken to indifference. In this, I must say, they were well matched.The marquis was very easy-going; he had a most gentlemanly temper. Hegot angry only once a year, but then it was very bad. He always took tobed directly afterwards. This time I speak of he took to bed as usual,but he never got up again. I’m afraid the poor gentleman was paying forhis dissipation isn’t it true they mostly do, sir, when they get old?My lady and Mr. Urbain kept quiet, but I know my lady wrote lettersto M. de Cintré. The marquis got worse and the doctors gave him up. Mylady, she gave him up too, and if the truth must be told, she gave himup gladly. When once he was out of the way she could do what she pleasedwith her daughter, and it was all arranged that my poor innocent childshould be handed over to M. de Cintré. You don’t know what Mademoisellewas in those days, sir; she was the sweetest young creature in France,and knew as little of what was going on around her as the lamb does ofthe butcher. I used to nurse the marquis, and I was always in his room.It was here at Fleurières, in the autumn. We had a doctor from Paris,who came and stayed two or three weeks in the house. Then there came twoothers, and there was a consultation, and these two others, as I said,declared that the marquis couldn’t be saved. After this they went off,pocketing their fees, but the other one stayed and did what he could.The marquis himself kept crying out that he wouldn’t die, that hedidn’t want to die, that he would live and look after his daughter.Mademoiselle Claire and the viscount--that was Mr. Valentin, youknow--were both in the house. The doctor was a clever man,--that I couldsee myself,--and I think he believed that the marquis might get well. Wetook good care of him, he and I, between us, and one day, when my ladyhad almost ordered her mourning, my patient suddenly began to mend. Hegot better and better, till the doctor said he was out of danger. Whatwas killing him was the dreadful fits of pain in his stomach. But littleby little they stopped, and the poor marquis began to make his jokesagain. The doctor found something that gave him great comfort--somewhite stuff that we kept in a great bottle on the chimney-piece. Iused to give it to the marquis through a glass tube; it always made himeasier. Then the doctor went away, after telling me to keep on givinghim the mixture whenever he was bad. After that there was a littledoctor from Poitiers, who came every day. So we were alone in thehouse--my lady and her poor husband and their three children. YoungMadame de Bellegarde had gone away, with her little girl, to hermothers. You know she is ver
y lively, and her maid told me that shedidn’t like to be where people were dying.” Mrs. Bread paused a moment,and then she went on with the same quiet consistency. “I think youhave guessed, sir, that when the marquis began to turn my lady wasdisappointed.” And she paused again, bending upon Newman a face whichseemed to grow whiter as the darkness settled down upon them.
Newman had listened eagerly--with an eagerness greater even than thatwith which he had bent his ear to Valentin de Bellegarde’s last words.Every now and then, as his companion looked up at him, she reminded himof an ancient tabby cat, protracting the enjoyment of a dish of milk.Even her triumph was measured and decorous; the faculty of exultationhad been chilled by disuse. She presently continued. “Late one night Iwas sitting by the marquis in his room, the great red room in the westtower. He had been complaining a little, and I gave him a spoonfulof the doctor’s dose. My lady had been there in the early part of theevening; she sat far more than an hour by his bed. Then she went awayand left me alone. After midnight she came back, and her eldest son waswith her. They went to the bed and looked at the marquis, and my ladytook hold of his hand. Then she turned to me and said he was not sowell; I remember how the marquis, without saying anything, lay staringat her. I can see his white face, at this moment, in the great blacksquare between the bed-curtains. I said I didn’t think he was very bad;and she told me to go to bed--she would sit a while with him. When themarquis saw me going he gave a sort of groan, and called out to me notto leave him; but Mr. Urbain opened the door for me and pointed theway out. The present marquis--perhaps you have noticed, sir--has a veryproud way of giving orders, and I was there to take orders. I went tomy room, but I wasn’t easy; I couldn’t tell you why. I didn’t undress;I sat there waiting and listening. For what, would you have said, sir? Icouldn’t have told you; for surely a poor gentleman might be comfortablewith his wife and his son. It was as if I expected to hear the marquismoaning after me again. I listened, but I heard nothing. It was a verystill night; I never knew a night so still. At last the very stillnessitself seemed to frighten me, and I came out of my room and went verysoftly downstairs. In the anteroom, outside of the marquis’s chamber, Ifound Mr. Urbain walking up and down. He asked me what I wanted, and Isaid I came back to relieve my lady. He said _he_ would relieve my lady,and ordered me back to bed; but as I stood there, unwilling to turnaway, the door of the room opened and my lady came out. I noticed shewas very pale; she was very strange. She looked a moment at the countand at me, and then she held out her arms to the count. He went to her,and she fell upon him and hid her face. I went quickly past her into theroom and to the marquis’s bed. He was lying there, very white, with hiseyes shut, like a corpse. I took hold of his hand and spoke to him,and he felt to me like a dead man. Then I turned round; my lady andMr. Urbain were there. ‘My poor Bread,’ said my lady, ‘M. le Marquis isgone.’ Mr. Urbain knelt down by the bed and said softly, ‘_Mon père, monpère_.’ I thought it wonderful strange, and asked my lady what in theworld had happened, and why she hadn’t called me. She said nothing hadhappened; that she had only been sitting there with the marquis, veryquiet. She had closed her eyes, thinking she might sleep, and she hadslept, she didn’t know how long. When she woke up he was dead. ‘It’sdeath, my son, it’s death,’ she said to the count. Mr. Urbain said theymust have the doctor, immediately, from Poitiers, and that he would rideoff and fetch him. He kissed his father’s face, and then he kissed hismother and went away. My lady and I stood there at the bedside. As Ilooked at the poor marquis it came into my head that he was not dead,that he was in a kind of swoon. And then my lady repeated, ‘My poorBread, it’s death, it’s death;’ and I said, ‘Yes, my lady, it’scertainly death.’ I said just the opposite to what I believed; it was mynotion. Then my lady said we must wait for the doctor, and we sat thereand waited. It was a long time; the poor marquis neither stirred norchanged. ‘I have seen death before,’ said my lady, ‘and it’s terriblylike this.’ ‘Yes, please, my lady,’ said I; and I kept thinking. Thenight wore away without the count’s coming back, and my lady began tobe frightened. She was afraid he had had an accident in the dark, or metwith some wild people. At last she got so restless that she went belowto watch in the court for her son’s return. I sat there alone and themarquis never stirred.”
Here Mrs. Bread paused again, and the most artistic of romancers couldnot have been more effective. Newman made a movement as if he wereturning over the page of a novel. “So he _was_ dead!” he exclaimed.
“Three days afterwards he was in his grave,” said Mrs. Bread,sententiously. “In a little while I went away to the front of the houseand looked out into the court, and there, before long, I saw Mr. Urbainride in alone. I waited a bit, to hear him come upstairs with hismother, but they stayed below, and I went back to the marquis’s room.I went to the bed and held up the light to him, but I don’t know whyI didn’t let the candlestick fall. The marquis’s eyes were open--openwide! they were staring at me. I knelt down beside him and took hishands, and begged him to tell me, in the name of wonder, whether he wasalive or dead. Still he looked at me a long time, and then he made me asign to put my ear close to him: ‘I am dead,’ he said, ‘I am dead. Themarquise has killed me.’ I was all in a tremble; I didn’t understandhim. He seemed both a man and a corpse, if you can fancy, sir. ‘Butyou’ll get well now, sir,’ I said. And then he whispered again, everso weak; ‘I wouldn’t get well for a kingdom. I wouldn’t be that woman’shusband again.’ And then he said more; he said she had murdered him.I asked him what she had done to him, but he only replied, ‘Murder,murder. And she’ll kill my daughter,’ he said; ‘my poor unhappy child.’And he begged me to prevent that, and then he said that he was dying,that he was dead. I was afraid to move or to leave him; I was almostdead myself. All of a sudden he asked me to get a pencil and write forhim; and then I had to tell him that I couldn’t manage a pencil. Heasked me to hold him up in bed while he wrote himself, and I said hecould never, never do such a thing. But he seemed to have a kind ofterror that gave him strength. I found a pencil in the room and a pieceof paper and a book, and I put the paper on the book and the pencil intohis hand, and moved the candle near him. You will think all this verystrange, sir; and very strange it was. The strangest part of it was thatI believed he was dying, and that I was eager to help him to write. Isat on the bed and put my arm round him, and held him up. I felt verystrong; I believe I could have lifted him and carried him. It was awonder how he wrote, but he did write, in a big scratching hand; healmost covered one side of the paper. It seemed a long time; I supposeit was three or four minutes. He was groaning, terribly, all the while.Then he said it was ended, and I let him down upon his pillows and hegave me the paper and told me to fold it, and hide it, and give it tothose who would act upon it. ‘Whom do you mean?’ I said. ‘Who are thosewho will act upon it?’ But he only groaned, for an answer; he couldn’tspeak, for weakness. In a few minutes he told me to go and look at thebottle on the chimney-piece. I knew the bottle he meant; the whitestuff that was good for his stomach. I went and looked at it, but it wasempty. When I came back his eyes were open and he was staring at me; butsoon he closed them and he said no more. I hid the paper in my dress;I didn’t look at what was written upon it, though I can read very well,sir, if I haven’t any handwriting. I sat down near the bed, but it wasnearly half an hour before my lady and the count came in. The marquislooked as he did when they left him, and I never said a word about hishaving been otherwise. Mr. Urbain said that the doctor had beencalled to a person in childbirth, but that he promised to set out forFleurières immediately. In another half hour he arrived, and as soon ashe had examined the marquis he said that we had had a false alarm. Thepoor gentleman was very low, but he was still living. I watched my ladyand her son when he said this, to see if they looked at each other, andI am obliged to admit that they didn’t. The doctor said there was noreason he should die; he had been going on so well. And then he wantedto know how he had suddenly fallen off; he had left him so very heart
y.My lady told her little story again--what she had told Mr. Urbain andme--and the doctor looked at her and said nothing. He stayed all thenext day at the château, and hardly left the marquis. I was alwaysthere. Mademoiselle and Mr. Valentin came and looked at their father,but he never stirred. It was a strange, deathly stupor. My lady wasalways about; her face was as white as her husband’s, and she lookedvery proud, as I had seen her look when her orders or her wishes hadbeen disobeyed. It was as if the poor marquis had defied her; and theway she took it made me afraid of her. The apothecary from Poitiers keptthe marquis along through the day, and we waited for the other doctorfrom Paris, who, as I told you, had been staying at Fleurières. They hadtelegraphed for him early in the morning, and in the evening he arrived.He talked a bit outside with the doctor from Poitiers, and then theycame in to see the marquis together. I was with him, and so was Mr.Urbain. My lady had been to receive the doctor from Paris, and shedidn’t come back with him into the room. He sat down by the marquis;I can see him there now, with his hand on the marquis’s wrist, and Mr.Urbain watching him with a little looking-glass in his hand. ‘I’m surehe’s better,’ said the little doctor from Poitiers; ‘I’m sure he’ll comeback.’ A few moments after he had said this the marquis opened his eyes,as if he were waking up, and looked at us, from one to the other. I sawhim look at me very softly, as you’d say. At the same moment my ladycame in on tiptoe; she came up to the bed and put in her head between meand the count. The marquis saw her and gave a long, most wonderful moan.He said something we couldn’t understand, and he seemed to have a kindof spasm. He shook all over and then closed his eyes, and the doctorjumped up and took hold of my lady. He held her for a moment a bitroughly. The marquis was stone dead! This time there were those therethat knew.”
Newman felt as if he had been reading by starlight the report of highlyimportant evidence in a great murder case. “And the paper--the paper!” he said, excitedly. “What was written upon it?”
“I can’t tell you, sir,” answered Mrs. Bread. “I couldn’t read it; itwas in French.”
“But could no one else read it?”
“I never asked a human creature.”
“No one has ever seen it?”
“If you see it you’ll be the first.”
Newman seized the old woman’s hand in both his own and pressed itvigorously. “I thank you ever so much for that,” he cried. “I want tobe the first, I want it to be my property and no one else’s! You’re thewisest old woman in Europe. And what did you do with the paper?” Thisinformation had made him feel extraordinarily strong. “Give it to mequick!”
Mrs. Bread got up with a certain majesty. “It is not so easy as that,sir. If you want the paper, you must wait.”
“But waiting is horrible, you know,” urged Newman.
“I am sure _I_ have waited; I have waited these many years,” said Mrs.Bread.
“That is very true. You have waited for me. I won’t forget it. And yet,how comes it you didn’t do as M. de Bellegarde said, show the paper tosomeone?”
“To whom should I show it?” answered Mrs. Bread, mournfully. “It was noteasy to know, and many’s the night I have lain awake thinking of it.Six months afterwards, when they married Mademoiselle to her vicious oldhusband, I was very near bringing it out. I thought it was my duty to dosomething with it, and yet I was mightily afraid. I didn’t know whatwas written on the paper or how bad it might be, and there was no oneI could trust enough to ask. And it seemed to me a cruel kindness to dothat sweet young creature, letting her know that her father had writtenher mother down so shamefully; for that’s what he did, I suppose. Ithought she would rather be unhappy with her husband than be unhappythat way. It was for her and for my dear Mr. Valentin I kept quiet.Quiet I call it, but for me it was a weary quietness. It worried meterribly, and it changed me altogether. But for others I held my tongue,and no one, to this hour, knows what passed between the poor marquis andme.”
“But evidently there were suspicions,” said Newman. “Where did Mr.Valentin get his ideas?”
“It was the little doctor from Poitiers. He was very ill-satisfied, andhe made a great talk. He was a sharp Frenchman, and coming to the house,as he did day after day, I suppose he saw more than he seemed to see.And indeed the way the poor marquis went off as soon as his eyes fell onmy lady was a most shocking sight for anyone. The medical gentleman fromParis was much more accommodating, and he hushed up the other. But forall he could do Mr. Valentin and Mademoiselle heard something; they knewtheir father’s death was somehow against nature. Of course they couldn’taccuse their mother, and, as I tell you, I was as dumb as that stone.Mr. Valentin used to look at me sometimes, and his eyes seemed to shine,as if he were thinking of asking me something. I was dreadfully afraidhe would speak, and I always looked away and went about my business. IfI were to tell him, I was sure he would hate me afterwards, and that Icould never have borne. Once I went up to him and took a great liberty;I kissed him, as I had kissed him when he was a child. ‘You oughtn’t tolook so sad, sir,’ I said; ‘believe your poor old Bread. Such a gallant,handsome young man can have nothing to be sad about.’ And I think heunderstood me; he understood that I was begging off, and he made uphis mind in his own way. He went about with his unasked question inhis mind, as I did with my untold tale; we were both afraid of bringingdishonor on a great house. And it was the same with Mademoiselle. Shedidn’t know what happened; she wouldn’t know. My lady and Mr. Urbainasked me no questions because they had no reason. I was as still asa mouse. When I was younger my lady thought me a hussy, and now shethought me a fool. How should I have any ideas?”
“But you say the little doctor from Poitiers made a talk,” said Newman.“Did no one take it up?”
“I heard nothing of it, sir. They are always talking scandal in theseforeign countries you may have noticed--and I suppose they shook theirheads over Madame de Bellegarde. But after all, what could they say? Themarquis had been ill, and the marquis had died; he had as good a rightto die as anyone. The doctor couldn’t say he had not come honestly byhis cramps. The next year the little doctor left the place and bought apractice in Bordeaux, and if there has been any gossip it died out.And I don’t think there could have been much gossip about my lady thatanyone would listen to. My lady is so very respectable.”
Newman, at this last affirmation, broke into an immense, resoundinglaugh. Mrs. Bread had begun to move away from the spot where they weresitting, and he helped her through the aperture in the wall andalong the homeward path. “Yes,” he said, “my lady’s respectability isdelicious; it will be a great crash!” They reached the empty space infront of the church, where they stopped a moment, looking at eachother with something of an air of closer fellowship--like two sociableconspirators. “But what was it,” said Newman, “what was it she did toher husband? She didn’t stab him or poison him.”
“I don’t know, sir; no one saw it.”
“Unless it was Mr. Urbain. You say he was walking up and down, outsidethe room. Perhaps he looked through the keyhole. But no; I think thatwith his mother he would take it on trust.”
“You may be sure I have often thought of it,” said Mrs. Bread. “Iam sure she didn’t touch him with her hands. I saw nothing on him,anywhere. I believe it was in this way. He had a fit of his great pain,and he asked her for his medicine. Instead of giving it to him she wentand poured it away, before his eyes. Then he saw what she meant, and,weak and helpless as he was, he was frightened, he was terrified. ‘Youwant to kill me,’ he said. ‘Yes, M. le Marquis, I want to kill you,’says my lady, and sits down and fixes her eyes upon him. You know mylady’s eyes, I think, sir; it was with them she killed him; it waswith the terrible strong will she put into them. It was like a frost onflowers.”
“Well, you are a very intelligent woman; you have shown greatdiscretion,” said Newman. “I shall value your services as housekeeperextremely.”
They had begun to descend the hill, and Mrs. Bread said nothing untilthey reached the foot. Newman
strolled lightly beside her; his head wasthrown back and he was gazing at all the stars; he seemed to himself tobe riding his vengeance along the Milky Way. “So you are serious, sir,about that?” said Mrs. Bread, softly.
“About your living with me? Why of course I will take care of you to theend of your days. You can’t live with those people any longer. And yououghtn’t to, you know, after this. You give me the paper, and you moveaway.”
“It seems very flighty in me to be taking a new place at this time oflife,” observed Mrs. Bread, lugubriously. “But if you are going to turnthe house upside down, I would rather be out of it.”
“Oh,” said Newman, in the cheerful tone of a man who feels rich inalternatives. “I don’t think I shall bring in the constables, if that’swhat you mean. Whatever Madame de Bellegarde did, I am afraid the lawcan’t take hold of it. But I am glad of that; it leaves it altogether tome!”
“You are a mighty bold gentleman, sir,” murmured Mrs. Bread, looking athim round the edge of her great bonnet.
He walked with her back to the château; the curfew had tolled for thelaborious villagers of Fleurières, and the street was unlighted andempty. She promised him that he should have the marquis’s manuscript inhalf an hour. Mrs. Bread choosing not to go in by the great gate, theypassed round by a winding lane to a door in the wall of the park, ofwhich she had the key, and which would enable her to enter the châteaufrom behind. Newman arranged with her that he should await outside thewall her return with the coveted document.
She went in, and his half hour in the dusky lane seemed very long. Buthe had plenty to think about. At last the door in the wall opened andMrs. Bread stood there, with one hand on the latch and the other holdingout a scrap of white paper, folded small. In a moment he was master ofit, and it had passed into his waistcoat pocket. “Come and see me inParis,” he said; “we are to settle your future, you know; and I willtranslate poor M. de Bellegarde’s French to you.” Never had he felt sograteful as at this moment for M. Nioche’s instructions.
Mrs. Bread’s dull eyes had followed the disappearance of the paper, andshe gave a heavy sigh. “Well, you have done what you would with me, sir,and I suppose you will do it again. You _must_ take care of me now. Youare a terribly positive gentleman.”
“Just now,” said Newman, “I’m a terribly impatient gentleman!” And hebade her good-night and walked rapidly back to the inn. He ordered hisvehicle to be prepared for his return to Poitiers, and then he shutthe door of the common salle and strode toward the solitary lamp on thechimney-piece. He pulled out the paper and quickly unfolded it. It wascovered with pencil-marks, which at first, in the feeble light, seemedindistinct. But Newman’s fierce curiosity forced a meaning from thetremulous signs. The English of them was as follows:--
“My wife has tried to kill me, and she has done it; I am dying, dyinghorribly. It is to marry my dear daughter to M. de Cintré. With all mysoul I protest,--I forbid it. I am not insane,--ask the doctors, askMrs. B----. It was alone with me here, to-night; she attacked me and putme to death. It is murder, if murder ever was. Ask the doctors.
“HENRI-URBAIN DE BELLEGARDE”